Shadows Fall

by Simon R. Green

  The sound of the gunshot came a moment later. The Sea Goat stared stupidly at the broken neck of the bottle still in his hand. Erikson drew his gun and yelled for them all to get down. He dropped to one knee and glared wildly about him. Rhea hit the ground and lay flat, her hands digging into the grass as though she could pull it over her like a blanket. The Bear yanked at the Sea Goat’s arm. There was the sound of another shot, and the Sea Goat lurched backwards a step. He looked down with wide, startled eyes at the widening bloodstain over his stomach. Bruin took a firm hold on the Goat’s arm and pulled him down by brute strength.

  Two more shots whipped past overhead, but the headstones shielded them. Erikson finally made out the man standing in the trees, and fired two shots at him. The figure with the rifle didn’t even flinch. Erikson swore briefly and took careful aim. It’s a lot harder than most people think to hit someone with a handgun at any distance, even in Shadows Fall. Unfortunately the sniper had a rifle and what appeared to be telescopic sights. The moment the thought flashed through his mind, Erikson forgot all about aiming and dropped behind the headstone that was sheltering him. He’d only just got his head down when two bullets whined through the air where his head had been. Erikson quickly decided that the current situation called for common sense, rather than heroics. In particular, it called for keeping his head well down and not trying to fight it out with someone who had him completely outclassed in the weapons department.

  He glared about him to make sure the others were safe. Rhea was lying flat on the ground a few feet away, shielded by the row of headstones. He could see her lips moving, but whether she was praying or cursing was unclear. Erikson thought he could guess, though. Bruin Bear was lying beside the groaning Sea Goat, trying to shield the seven-foot body with his own diminutive form. The two gravediggers had taken cover in the open grave. Any other time, Erikson might have found that funny, but right then he didn’t have the time. He eased his gun round the edge of the headstone and fired two shots blindly, just to keep the sniper on his toes.

  There was no return fire, and after a long moment Erikson peered very cautiously round the edge of the stone. The sniper had a hand radio, and was talking into it. Erikson smiled tightly. The sniper could talk to whomever he liked; there was no way he could get out of Shadows Fall, now he’d revealed himself. A sudden movement caught the Sheriff’s eye, and he looked quickly round to see Time’s automaton striding out of the trees towards the sniper. The man put his radio away, quickly brought up his rifle and fired. The bullet hit the automaton square in the chest. The metal figure shuddered under the impact, but kept on coming. The sniper fired again, and the automaton’s head exploded. It stopped uncertainly where it was, and the sniper shot out its knees. The clockwork figure fell to the ground and lay there thrashing awkwardly. Erikson scowled. Time’s automatons were pretty hard-wearing, but there was a limit to the kind of punishment they were expected to take. That was what Jack Fetch was for. He’d be here soon. Time wouldn’t stand for this. Erikson shuddered at the thought, despite himself. The sniper might think he was in control of the situation, but the scarecrow would change all that. There was nowhere the sniper could run that Fetch couldn’t find him. And then Erikson heard the helicopter approaching, and knew immediately how the sniper was going to escape.

  The sound quickly grew louder, and in a matter of seconds a black military-style helicopter with no markings was hovering over the graveyard. The trees bent reluctantly under the down-wash of the roaring blades, but the sniper held his ground. A door opened in the side of the helicopter, and a rope ladder fell down. The sniper shouldered his rifle and pulled himself up on to the ladder. Erikson raised his gun and took careful aim. No you don’t, my friend. Not that easily, you don’t. He fired once, but the ladder was swaying back and forth, and he missed. The helicopter turned to face him, and Erikson suddenly knew why.

  Oh shit…

  He crouched down behind the tombstone again, and the helicopter’s machine guns opened up. Bullets flew around him, pounding against the stone and chipping away at its edges. Erikson curled into a ball, and tried to think himself smaller. Who the hell are these people? Mercenaries? Who for? He didn’t have to see the sniper to know he was escaping up the rope ladder, but there was nothing he could do to stop him. He was pinned down, helpless in the face of superior firepower. There was nothing he could do. Nothing anyone could do.

  But Bruin Bear wasn’t just anyone.

  He ran out from among the tombstones, his short legs moving him surprisingly quickly as he raced towards the helicopter. He had no weapon of any kind, but his small fuzzy face was completely determined, without a hint of doubt in it. Bullets hammered the ground to both sides of the Bear, but none of them hit him because… well, because he was Bruin Bear, and some of his old magic was still with him. He crossed the intervening ground incredibly quickly, and swarmed up the rope ladder after the sniper. His furry paw shot out and grabbed the sniper’s ankle. The man kicked and shouted, but couldn’t break the hold.

  “Let go of me, demon! Hellspawn!” There was anger in the sniper’s voice, but something that might have been fear and revulsion too. The Bear hung on grimly.

  “You shot my friend,” he panted. “You shot my friend!”

  And then a man in military fatigues leaned out of the helicopter door and aimed a gun point blank at the Bear’s head. There was a limit to Bruin’s magic, and the Bear knew it. His paw closed harshly, crushing the sniper’s ankle, and then he released his hold and fell back to the ground. He hit hard but was up on his feet in a second, watching helplessly as the helicopter flew away.

  Back among the headstones Rhea and Erikson rose slowly to their feet and, for want of anything better to do, dusted themselves off thoroughly.

  “Who the hell were they?” said Rhea, her voice not quite as steady as it might have been.

  “I don’t know,” said Erikson. “But I’m going to find out.”

  Bruin Bear came trotting back. “Did you hear what he called me? He called me a demon! And hellspawn! I mean, do I even look like a demon? I’m a fucking teddy bear!”

  He brushed past Rhea and Erikson without waiting for an answer, and knelt beside the Sea Goat, who had managed to sit up by bracing his back against a headstone. The front of his trenchcoat was soaked with blood. He was breathing in sudden little gasps, but his eyes were clear. Bruin Bear took the Goat’s gnarled hand in his paw and held it firmly.

  Rhea looked at the two gravediggers climbing out of the open grave. “You two! Go get a doctor. Or a magic-user, if you can find one. Use my authority if you have to. Now move it!”

  The gravediggers nodded and left at a run, as though their own lives depended on it. Rhea knelt down beside the Sea Goat, and started to undo his coat buttons.

  “I wouldn’t,” said Erikson quietly. “It might be all that’s holding him together. Leave it for someone who knows what they’re doing.”

  “Of course,” said Rhea. “You’re right. I just… wish there was something I could do.”

  “Try a few prayers,” said the Goat hoarsely. “Any deity. I’m not choosy.”

  “How do you feel?” said Erikson.

  “Bloody awful. Next stupid bloody question.”

  “Save your strength,” said Bruin Bear.

  “I saw your run,” said the Goat. “Pretty good for a short arse. Scared the britches off that sniper.” He started to laugh, and then stopped painfully as blood started from his mouth. “Damn,” he said thickly. “That is not a good sign. Look, somebody do me a favour and drag me the hell out of here. I positively refuse to die in a cemetery. That’s too sodding ironic, even for me.”

  “We can’t risk moving you,” said the Bear. “Now shut up and lie still or I’ll belt you one.”

  “Not you, Bruin. Not your style, that. But thanks for the thought.”

  Rhea got up and walked off a way, gesturing with her head for the Sheriff to join her. When they were comfortably out of earshot, Rhea looked Eriks
on straight in the eye. “No more diplomacy, Richard. What are his chances?”

  “Not good,” the Sheriff admitted. “Gut shots are always bad. He’s got an exit hole in his back you could stick your fist into, and from the way he’s coughing blood, it’s a pretty safe bet the bullet’s at least nicked one of his lungs. If he was a man, he’d be in real trouble. Since he’s… whatever he is, he’s in with a chance.”

  “Why shoot him?” said Rhea. “If the sniper came all this way to kill someone, why not choose someone important, like you or me? A target that would be worth all this effort?”

  “Good point,” said Erikson. “I don’t know.”

  Rhea shook her head tiredly. “What the hell is going on in Shadows Fall? First the murders, then James Hart, and now a sniper with military back-up. Has everyone gone crazy?”

  “I don’t know,” said the Sheriff. “Maybe. But I think it’s more likely someone is following a definite game plan. That helicopter shouldn’t have been able to get in here without setting off all kinds of alarms, natural and supernatural. Either our security is getting really sloppy, or…”

  “Or there’s a traitor in Shadows Fall,” said Rhea slowly. “Someone has betrayed us to the outside world.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Secret Places

  Lester Gold’s car took the corner at more than twice the speed limit, engine roaring, tyres screeching, and shot off down the empty road as though the Devil himself was in hot pursuit. Sean Morrison, bard, troubadour and late sixties rock-and-roller, hung on to his seatbelt with both hands, and watched with horrified eyes as his whole life flashed before them. An awful lot of it seemed to have been spent in bars, and Morrison fervently wished he was in one now, preferably with a large brandy in his hand. Brandy was good for shock. Lester Gold, Man of Action and Mystery Avenger, seemed blithely unaware that there was anything at all unusual about his driving, and continued to talk cheerfully about his past exploits as a costumed adventurer as he ran swiftly through the gears to squeeze every last ounce of speed out of the straining engine.

  Morrison tried to remember whether his will was up to date, and listened incredulously as the old man at the wheel talked of his adventures in the thirties and forties as though they were yesterday. Under other, calmer, circumstances Morrison might have found them fascinating, but as it was he was more concerned whether the car would hold together much longer. If it had been a horse, it would have had wide, rolling eyes and froth at its mouth by now. The pressure of traffic increased as they headed out into the suburbs, and Gold reluctantly slowed to something nearer the speed limit. Morrison began to breathe more easily, and decided the next time the car stopped for a red light, he was going to hurl himself from the car and run like fun for the horizon. Except that the car didn’t seem to be stopping for any red lights…

  The suburbs flashed by in a blur of identical houses, with neatly trimmed lawns and cars in the drive. People stopped to wave at Gold’s car, and he always waved cheerfully back. Morrison rather wished he wouldn’t. He felt fractionally more secure when Gold had both hands on the steering wheel. Gold suddenly turned the car sharply to the right, not bothering with incidentals like mirror or indicator, and brought the car to a shuddering halt in the driveway beside a pleasant-looking house. Morrison decided he was going to sit very still for a while, until his legs felt strong enough to support him again. He took the opportunity to study Gold’s house. It wasn’t quite what he’d been expecting. It was an ordinary house in an ordinary street, situated right in the middle of Shadows Fall’s quiet suburbs. Not too big and not too small, with a neatly laid out flower garden, and a stone bird bath full of murky-looking water. Down the end of the street someone was walking a dog, and half a dozen kids were kicking a ball about. Not exactly what he’d expected for the headquarters of the Mystery Avenger.

  Gold was already out of the car and round the other side, holding the car door open for Morrison to get out. He was still talking, something about the Blue Diamond murders and the Master of Pain. (Morrison could hear the capital letters quite distinctly.) He climbed out of the car just a little shakily, waited for a brief pause in Gold’s story, and then nodded at the house.

  “Is this it? The secret retreat of the Mystery Avenger?”

  Gold grinned cheerfully. “What did you expect? A Fortress of Solitude? I’m a retired florist on a pension. I’m rather proud of the garden, though. You should see it in the summer, Sean. It looks a treat in the summer. Now follow me, and keep clear of that flower bed. I’ve just put some bulbs in.”

  Morrison followed Gold into the house, being very careful where he put his feet, and found the house’s interior exactly matched its exterior. A nice little commuter’s house, with fitted carpets, comfortable furniture and paintings on the walls of those cute children with the big eyes. Morrison hadn’t felt so nauseated since the time he’d mixed Polish vodka and Napoleonic brandy in the same glass to see what it would do to the taste. (Actually, it had tasted pretty good for the ten minutes or so he’d been able to hold it down.) He managed a polite smile, and Gold grinned back in a way that suggested he wasn’t fooled in the least, but appreciated the thought.

  “It’s a small place, but my own. The Bank’s paid off, and every inch of it is mine. It was supposed to be a retirement home for me and the wife, after we sold off the florist’s. But Molly died only a year after we retired. I hadn’t expected that. I always thought we’d have our autumn years together. But it wasn’t to be. The old place seems rather empty without her. We’d planned so many things we were going to do; places to go, people to meet… but somehow they didn’t seem nearly so attractive once I was on my own, so I never went. I stayed here, keeping the place clean and tidy and pottering about in the garden. I thought sometimes about selling the house and getting something smaller, but I never did. The rooms are full of Molly’s things, and as long as they’re still here I can pretend she’s still about the place somewhere, in another room or just popped out for the moment. Silly, I know, but I do miss her. Now then, you’re not here to listen to an old man’s ramblings; you want to know about the Mystery Avenger. Come along.”

  He started up the stairs to the next floor. Morrison pulled a face behind the old man’s back, but followed obediently. Probably going to show me his old costume, hanging up in a cupboard. Then I’ll have to sit through all his old scrapbooks and photo albums. When am I going to learn to say no to people? Gold stopped by the first door at the top of the stairs, pulled out a heavy brass key and unlocked the door. He pushed it open, and stepped back for Morrison to enter first. He put on his best interested smile, nodded to Gold, and walked forward into another world.

  It was an ordinary-sized room, but packed from wall to wall and from floor to ceiling with a lifetime’s collection of souvenirs and paraphernalia celebrating one man’s career as a costumed adventurer. There was a bookcase full of old pulp magazines and paperback reprints. A glass display case full of weird and unlikely objects, each carefully labelled as to which adventure they belonged to. There were photos of old friends and adversaries, and even a full-sized cinema poster from an old forties black and white movie serial starring the Mystery Avenger. And there was a costume, on a mannequin inside a polished glass case. It looked more like body armour, but it had a certain garish style. Morrison wandered slowly through the bookcases and display stands, and something of the small child awoke in him again, from a time when he still believed in heroes and villains. He looked back at Gold, grinning in the doorway.

  “Welcome to my Batcave,” the old man said cheerfully. “Most of it’s junk, really. I should have a good clean out, make some room, but it all has sentimental value. Even if most of it never really happened.”

  Morrison found himself standing before the cinema poster, with its huge photo of the Mystery Avenger in full costume, hanging on to the side of a speeding car, gun in hand. “Is that… you?”

  “No,” said Gold, “That’s Finlay Jacobs, the actor who played me on the
screen. They never did get the costume right. Said it didn’t look dramatic enough. Maybe, but at least I could go into a fight reasonably sure I wasn’t going to trip over my own cloak. The serial made money, but not enough to make it worth shooting another. The studio already had the rights to the Shadow and the Spider, and they were both bigger than I ever was. Nobody else seemed interested. I can’t say I’m sorry. They messed up all the stories, and got all the details wrong. Even had me swinging from building to building on a rope. Have you ever tried that? It gets very painful, very quickly. I used a car to get about, like everyone else. And before you ask, no, it wasn’t a Batmobile. The whole point of a car was to get me quickly from place to place. The last thing I needed was some flashy motor that told everyone who I was. People would have mobbed it at traffic lights, demanding autographs.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Morrison slowly. “The exploits in the magazines and books were really you, but the movie serial wasn’t?”

  Gold shrugged. “I remember all of them, but none of them were real till I came here. I became real the moment I decided to stay in Shadows Fall, like any other legend. You have to be real, before you can die. But before that, there were so many versions of me that I lost count. So I decide what actually happened, and what didn’t. Who else has a better right?”

  Morrison nodded, and looked back at the display cases. One was full of toys and merchandising from the forties and fifties. He raised an eyebrow. That sort of thing was worth money these days, to collectors. Particularly if they came personally autographed… but that was in the outside world, and none of this would ever go there. He came to a leather-bound album, and opened it to flip through the heavy pages. The album was made up of a series of old newspaper cuttings, carefully mounted and dated, from the late sixties onwards. They all concerned the Mystery Avenger’s involvement in strange and unusual crimes that had taken place in Shadows Fall. Sometimes he was just there as an adviser, sometimes assisting in the running of a case with other detectives, and occasionally there was a large photo of the man himself, in full costume, pictured at the scene of the arrest. There was something almost surreal in the way the costume remained the same, but the man inside grew steadily older. Morrison looked back at Gold.